How Small A Trouthttps://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com
Maybe your stature as a fly fisherman isn't determined by how big a trout you can catch, but by how small a trout you can catch without being disappointed. -- John Gierach
Wed, 02 Jan 2019 03:05:06 +0000 en
hourly
1 http://wordpress.com/https://secure.gravatar.com/blavatar/f57ee202e177725a042d3efc8e8ae731?s=96&d=https%3A%2F%2Fs0.wp.com%2Fi%2Fbuttonw-com.pngHow Small A Trouthttps://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com
On Various Catch Totals and their Meaningshttps://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2013/05/03/on-various-catch-totals-and-their-meanings/
https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2013/05/03/on-various-catch-totals-and-their-meanings/#commentsFri, 03 May 2013 15:55:40 +0000http://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/?p=1606The first fish answers “no” to the question of whether you will be skunked today and therefore is always welcome. The number-one fish takes you over a divide of sorts. You have readied yourself for fishing and you begin to cast, but without at least one fish all you really have to do is stop casting for a moment and you’re back at the first step again. You might as well be in your driveway, still trying to find a good song to start the drive. After the first fish is in your net, you are on to a third step, one which validates your preparation and careful selection of driving tunes.

If you’re in a place where fish are hard to come by, your first catch will represent a gulf between those who caught that day and those who did not. And when fishing in a group, of course, it’s hard to overstate the satisfaction that comes when your first fish is the first fish.

For me, the first fish often makes his appearance right away, on an early cast, maybe because my focus is so thorough but more probably because I haven’t had time to spoil the entire stream yet.

The second fish confirms what you’re always hoping: that the first one wasn’t a fluke. You have at least managed to get it right twice, meaning there’s a fair chance that you could do it a third time.

An angler fishing in very productive waters will blow past that second fish without pausing. I advise against this. Take note of the number-two fish, and salute him, lest he be lost among the other fish you catch that day.

Fish number three lends a certain Isaak-Walton completeness to your catch, especially if you are fishing for supper. Three good fish, lying picturesquely on a bed of grass in a wicker creel, are enough to feed yourself and your protege, with something left over for the milk-maid.

The number-five fish is looked for because with it you can report your catch by holding up all the fingers on one hand while maintaining a cool, trout-stalking reticence. The fifth fish allows some extrapolation, too–“It’s 2:15 and I have five fish. If this keeps up, I could wind up with fifty by 8:30.” There is something great about counting up fish by fives, even the ones you haven’t caught yet.

The tenth fish is a benchmark for obvious reasons. Grunting “got ten” at your buddy has an authoritative ring, especially if the trip was somewhat short or the fish somewhat long. You’re now also into double digits, which gives you an option of describing the day in those terms. For example, if your buddy says, “Thirty-five; how’d you do?” you may now honestly answer, “Oh, I got into double digits, as well.”

Fish number twelve allows you to use the word “dozen.”

Hello, twenty, thirty, and forty. There are fewer and fewer places in the world where ordinary anglers can catch twenty fish and not consider that a good trip. Twenty fish make a day memorable even if your buddy catches forty. I often make twenty my goal, though on an “ordinary” day, several factors have to fall into place for me catch that number, and going beyond it strikes me as relentless. The number-twenty fish seems to ask me, “Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?” I admit to often answering, “No, not really,” but I always acknowledge it’s a good question.

A few years ago my wife bought me a fish counter in the shape of a little rainbow trout with a dial and a tiny window that reads from “01” to “00.” I thought it would be fun for the few places where I’m in danger of catching more fish than I can count in my head, but whenever I used it, my catch totals seemed depressed. I once brought it to Montana to fish on what was supposed to be a dynamite trout stream. At the end of the day the counter read “09.” The next day I left it in the tent and caught twenty-seven. When it comes to fishing and jinxes, that’s as close to hard science as a fly angler needs–I’ve never fished with it again.

Some calibration may be in order here. If your homewater is a bluegill pond, twenty fish is the opening act. If you fish steelhead, thirty fish may be a month’s work.

What can be said about the fiftieth fish? If you’re holding the number-fifty fish, either the fish are just plain obsequious or you have moved into a hazy, euphoric state of mind we sometimes refer to as “the zone,” where practice and experience quiet the clamor of the conscience mind and tap into some primitive place in the brainstem where nothing exists but your efforts and their object.

My first memory of passing into the zone is playing Galaga at an arcade decades ago. Fishing and Galaga actually resemble each other more than you might think–both involve lengthy sequences of motions repeated mechanically, interspersed with furious improvisation. I had blasted my way through the high score on the machine and racked up four or five extra lives when I noticed how how relaxed my movements were, and the way I anticipated my enemy’s attacks three and four steps in advance. As I breezed through a Challenge Stage in the high 20s, I understood only that something up in my brain was different, sharper, better. Unfortunately, as soon as I became consciously aware of it, everything downshifted, the sharpness faded, and my starfighter disintegrated in a cloud of 8-bit graphics and sound.

Fish number 100. I was speaking in partly hypothetical terms about about catching fifty fish at a single go–I visit that neighborhood periodically but can’t afford to live there. Anything I say about catching 100 fish is pure speculation. Let’s say I’ve gotten a look at the neighborhood, but just from the highway.

Hypothetically, 100 fish would be a lot of fun, but I doubt I’d have the expertise or discipline to keep fishing long enough to find out. Assuming I found a waterway with such abundance, and further assuming I caught a fish every five minutes or so, I’d need to fish for more than eight hours to arrive at 100. What about taking a break to look around the stream? What about sitting on a rock and watching your friend catch one? Hey, what about lunch?

Even though such waters are uncharted for me, I suppose I can say one thing with certainty: the number-100 fish won’t be that different from the first, second, or tenth. The number-100 fish will shine and shimmer the same way the first one did. It will feel vibrant in your hand.

This post was first published last May, during our insane “Every Day in May” blogging challenge. For something brand-spankin’ fresh, please see a Chadd’s new article at Eat Sleep Fish!

]]>https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2013/05/03/on-various-catch-totals-and-their-meanings/feed/7howsmallatrout5The first fish answers "no" to the question of whether you will be skunked today and therefore is always welcome. Three good fish, lying picturesquely on a bed of grass in a wicker creel, are enough to feed you and your protege, with one left over for the milkmaid.Jinx!Some calibration may be in order here. If your homewater is a bluegill pond, twenty fish is the opening act.The number-100 fish will shine and shimmer the same way the first one did. It will feel cool and alive in your hand.New Article on Eat Sleep Fishhttps://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2013/01/07/new-article-on-eat-sleep-fish/
https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2013/01/07/new-article-on-eat-sleep-fish/#commentsTue, 08 Jan 2013 03:29:30 +0000http://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/?p=1584

We here at How Small A Trout promise to have some new and fantastic content to post real soon. Russ got a new vice for Christmas! There must be a post in there, somewhere. And surely Chadd has something new to say, too.

For now, we got another article published at Eat Sleep Fish. Please click over there and check out photos and an essay by Chadd (which of course features Russ) about winter fly fishing. And not to strain our arms patting ourselves on the back, but the guys at ESF liked the piece so much they ran it as the lead article. This makes it really easy to find.

We’re also including a couple of the photos we worked up for the ESF article (one that got selected for publication and one that didn’t). These versions are a little larger than the ones at ESF.

The hackle fibers are usually the first to go on store-bought dry flies. They unfurl and twist like ribbons on birthday presents. If that doesn’t happen, whatever they use to make ribs (I’m guessing something related to toilet paper) unzips and the dubbing spills off. Nymphs are a little tougher, but look worse; even when they’re still sitting in their bins at the shop.

My buddy, who doesn’t tie flies, will occasionally bring me his store-boughts and ask me to doctor them up. I’ll put cement on the knots, I’ll whip some thread around the heads, but it only ever buys him maybe an extra hour on the water.

One of the first flies I ever tied was a size-16 Purple Haze. It had a moose-hair tail and grizzly hackles. I caught more fish on that single fly than any other. I think because it was one of my first flies, I embedded it with sentimentality and a superstition that produced fish. When it snagged in a tree, I wouldn’t just yank hoping that it would come down. I would exit the river, reach high and try to pull down branches and, occasionally, trees to retrieve it. And the fish. I don’t remember them all, but it caught palm-sized brookies, gnarled big browns and everything in between. First the tail fibers fell out. But that was somehow OK because the dubbing brushed back around the bend making the body almost look like a comet. Then I bent the hook when I extracted it from a fish that sucked it down deep into its mouth. With my hemostats, I bent the hook back, but it was never the same. Nearly any fish that gave me a fight or that foul hooked would result in a bent hook. Eventually it couldn’t stay dry even after a week off the water. The hackle fibers became brittle and looked like split ends on over-styled hair. Even though I stopped fishing with the fly, I kept it pinned to the top left corner of my flybox for months.

One of the appeals for tying my own flies is that they aren’t permanent. That unknown expiration date keeps a constant flow in and out of my flybox that ensures nothing grows stagnant. If I was Buddhist I would say something about the importance of learning about impermanence. I would talk about the monks who construct elaborate sand mandalas only to destroy them (sometimes by dunking them in a river) when they finish. But I’m nowhere near a Buddhist–just a dude who tries to find the beauty in an unraveling thread.

Nothin’ to see here! But we have been staying busy. Please click on over to the excellent online fly fishing zine Eat Sleep Fish for an essay Chadd wrote on floating the Snake River with pals Russ and Ken. (You’re welcome to read their other content, too.) We like ESF because it’s got the visual panache of Montana with the fly fishing ethos of the UK. Thanks to Pete at ESF for accepting and publishing the piece—it was a fun to write and we hope ESF and HSAT readers dig it.

]]>https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/10/02/how-small-a-trout-eat-sleep-fish/feed/3howsmallatrout5Drift boat on the Snake River in Idaho.The Post In Which the Author Compares Fish To Peoplehttps://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/09/17/the-post-in-which-the-author-compares-fish-to-people/
https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/09/17/the-post-in-which-the-author-compares-fish-to-people/#commentsTue, 18 Sep 2012 04:34:40 +0000http://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/?p=1507I nearly turned back when I realized I forgot my sunglasses, then when I saw I was low on gas, then when I saw the river was packed with anglers. But I kept driving. I drove until I saw no one, then I drove another mile.

This is my favorite time to fish. Late summer, early fall. After Labor Day, before Halloween. Just when it’s getting cooler, but far from cold. I put in downstream from a beaver pond that didn’t exist a month ago. The cows had done their best to rid the hills of vegetation, but the grass that was left appeared golden. Willows and scrub oaks guarded the river on both sides. Everything smelled dusty. There wasn’t a visible hatch, but the water rippled with takes. Around this time, it seems that fish feel some desperation.

Within a few casts, I had my first fish. A small cutthroat who’s cuts glowed hunter orange. The cutties seemed to have brightened up like the scrub oak that lines the river. The fish appeared shiftless, too, especially the young ones. They dart from hole to hole and used much more energy than needed to take bugs off the surface. My next fish came out of the water for my Adams. His mouth anchored to the fly, and his tail wheeled around like the hands of a clock and splashed into the still water.

I’ve had days when I couldn’t keep little brookies off the hook, and, once, a day when I couldn’t keep off little browns. This was the first time that I couldn’t keep off cutts. The other days didn’t feel that satisfying. But the cutthroat day? It was the best fishing I had all year.

It’s because I like cutthroats the best. Partly because they’re native. The ancestors of the fish I caught were here long before my ancestors, and I don’t mean my great-great grandpa, or even white guys. I mean humans. More than that, they’re just my favorite.

Rainbows remind me of the Californians that came into my hometown and bought up land where I once moved irrigation pipes in alfalfa fields. They built garish mansions decorated with stuff from LL Bean and Pottery Barn. They’re charming and nice–you almost believe they belong.

You can trace your finger on the maps on the backs of brookies and they somehow lead you east. I imagine even their kids talk with Boston accents even though they’ve been west for generations.

The browns clog the once quiet trails with their ATVs. As they fly by in a cloud of dust, they throw off Mountain Dew cans and cigarette boxes.

But not cutthroats. They’re a handsome fish, with their almost bronze coloring and muddy splotches. They’re just good folk with clean, calloused hands. If a cutthroat was to date your daughter, he’d have her home on time and call you sir or ma’am.

On the way home, I pulled over and watched three older anglers wet wade. They held onto each others shoulders for stability. Their rods moved back and forth slowly. Their loops unfolded like quilts being shook out for summer storage. I waited for one of them to catch a fish, but it didn’t happen.

Take Our Poll
]]>https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/09/17/the-post-in-which-the-author-compares-fish-to-people/feed/10howsmallatrout5This is my favorite time to fishWithin a few casts, I had my first fish.Rainbows remind me of the Californians the maps on the backs of brookies somehow lead you eastAs they fly by in a cloud of dust, they throw off Mountain Dew cans and cigarette boxes. If a cutthroat was to date your daughter, he’d have her home on time and call you sir or ma’amIt is a very small streamhttps://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/09/13/it-is-a-very-small-stream/
https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/09/13/it-is-a-very-small-stream/#commentsThu, 13 Sep 2012 16:00:31 +0000http://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/?p=1455When Mama Java sees me in my fishing get-up she says, “Well, look at you. Fisherman.”

I shrug.

“Did you sleep okay last night?”

“Yeah, it was great.”

This is a lie.

“Oh, good. Cuz those bunkbeds can be—iffy.”

True.

“So, how do I get to this creek?”

“It’s just down the hill,” she says, pointing. “Go past the cabins and down the logging road until it ends. Then keep going.”

Bleached-out slash and deadfall bar the way at the end of the logging road. I scrabble over, careful not to snag my waders. Then the going is easy. Gravity pulls me down the drainage until I find a trail. There I encounter a hiker who doesn’t notice me until I’m close enough to poke him with my rod. He flinches and emits a girlish squeak.

“God. Thought you were a bear or something.”

I consider attacking him so he won’t feel as embarrassed. He sidesteps me and continues up the trail.

Soon I hear the water and quicken my pace. My rod tip waggles like a divining rod.

Getting to the water is tougher. Undergrowth and fallen timber guard its every bend. I collapse my rod and push through.

A sun-speckled riffle encompassed by tall pines hurries past. Boulders and logs cradle the water to form quiet falls and stepped pools. There is little space for casting. Definitely didn’t need the waders.

Just as Mama Java told me, it is a very small stream.

That the trout are also small is no surprise, then.

Nor are they a disappointment.

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https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/09/13/it-is-a-very-small-stream/feed/7howsmallatrout5"Getting to the water is tougher. Undergrowth and fallen timber guard its every bend."Click me. Go on, click on me."That the trout are also small is no surprise, then."Should vs. Couldhttps://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/09/04/should-vs-could/
https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/09/04/should-vs-could/#commentsTue, 04 Sep 2012 16:00:12 +0000http://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/?p=1351 Here in the western United States, autumn typically creeps up slowly, the flows drop almost imperceptibly, and the fishing gets better and better as the leaves change. Fly anglers get a little delirious, like a bunch of sugared-up kids at 10 p.m. on Halloween.

This year it’s very different. Everywhere you go, people say, “The water’s so low. Haven’t seen it this low for a long time.”

The fly anglers have been pretty satisfied with conditions this year, but I can tell you they’re thinking a lot more about the fish, a little less about the fishing.

My friend from the Division of Wildlife tells me there was a fish kill in the Blacksmith Fork River last month. It was mostly chub and sucker, and he calls it “minor,” but still. We just don’t get fish kills around here.

“I’m telling you,” he says, “if we don’t start getting some precipitation, next year we’re looking at disaster.”

I consider asking him to define “disaster,” but I don’t even want to know.

Fish will surprise you. That’s one reason people love catching them—endless variation, no two exactly alike. The Bonneville cutthroat trout has inhabited my homewaters for hundreds of thousands of years. Who can say how many droughts this species has already withstood? They have come through ice and fire and untold human impacts.

Brown trout have only been here for a hundred or so years, but in some ways they’re even tougher than the cutts.

The best I can do is hope they know what they’re doing, I guess.

Not too long ago I waded up into this great little shady bend and pool, a spot that was very productive at this time last year, when the water was so much higher.

“Caught one there, and there, and there,” I mused. “There were two in that slot right there, and there was a big one behind that rock.”

This year it looks so different. The water behind the rock is only a couple inches deep, and the slot is practically desiccated.

I tied on a new fly and asked myself: “Should there be a fish there?”

No. Absolutely not.

“Could there be a fish there?”

Well. When it comes to trout, that is a completely different question.

]]>https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/09/04/should-vs-could/feed/10howsmallatrout5"They have come through ice and fire and untold human impacts.""I can tell you they're thinking a lot more about the fish, a little less about the fishing.""Brown trout have only been here for a hundred or so years, but in some ways they're even tougher than the cutts.""...a spot that was very productive at this time last year, when the water was so much higher."When it comes to trout, "should" and "could" are two completely different things.The Clown Flyhttps://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/08/29/the-clown-fly/
https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/08/29/the-clown-fly/#commentsThu, 30 Aug 2012 04:18:21 +0000http://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/?p=1340I don’t know if I have a particularly hard time seeing my flies on the water, or if it’s something everyone struggles with, but I plotted and pondered and came up with this: the most obnoxious fly I now tie.

It’s a Double Parachute Adams with purple dubbing. Because of the double parachute, it nearly always lands up on the water. I’ve only used this fly a few times, and I’m not completely sold on it yet. The plus side? It is visible. From space.

]]>https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/08/29/the-clown-fly/feed/8howsmallatrout5Clown Fly 2.2Clown Fly 1The Places We End Up Athttps://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/08/25/the-places-we-end-up-at/
https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/08/25/the-places-we-end-up-at/#commentsSat, 25 Aug 2012 06:30:14 +0000http://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/?p=1293Brad calls the motel around 8 p.m. to tell them we’re two hours away and will there be someone to check us in when we arrive? I should mention my use of the word “motel” in this case is generous. This is a cluster of frowzy cabins out back of an old roadside stopover. It doesn’t matter whether it was originally a gas station that became a gift shop or a diner that became a convenience store because it is now all of those things and the one thing it is not is a motel. All-night check-in is just one of the many conveniences they do not boast. Air conditioning, ice, and room service are a few others, and the Continental Divide is surely closer than the nearest swimming pool or hot tub.

The proprietress Brandy tells Brad the diner closes at 10 p.m., and if we get there before then, someone can give us a key to our cabin. If we get there after 10, we can “go around back” and find the key under or next to something somewhere, but that seems worrisomely complicated and so Paul drives a little faster.

We pull off the Interstate and into the gravel parking lot with about 120 seconds to spare but no more than that. Through the windows of the diner we see Brandy closing up. She wears way too much make-up and spray-on tan for someone her age, and her attempt to flirt with Russ would be awkward even if she were much younger. However, she wins us over by treating us not as paying customers but as distant and late-coming in-laws who are in need of a place to crash.

When we ask her if she can split our bill four ways so we can each pay separately, she says, “Well. That makes it harder for me.”

No one says anything for a few moments.

“So, can you or can’tcha?” says Paul.

“Yeah, I can.”

As she runs our bank cards we ask her how business has been. She sighs and says her best employee is out of commission because she had to go into town to bail her boyfriend out of jail.

We nod and pretend to know how tough it is when your best employee has to go into town to bail her boyfriend out of jail, but Brandy shrugs it off and says everything will be fine in the morning.

“I mean, how long do you need to bail one guy out of jail, right?”

We nod some more.

Brandy shows us to our cabin, the interior of which would not be unfamiliar to anyone who has been detained in an internment camp. Once we’ve dropped our bags and rod cases, we notice the cabin has only three beds, so Brandy takes us to the cabin next door, where she keeps a couple rollaway cots that appear to have been in service since the Roosevelt Administration, and I mean Teddy. She points out which is the better of the two, and Russ helps me roll it down the boardwalk.

Back in the cabin, I unfold the cot and there in the center of the mattress is an evil-colored stain about the diameter of a good-sized dinner plate.

Russ and I exchange a horrified glance, but Brandy is unfazed. I realize that it falls to me to be embarrassed on behalf of all of us, and so I quickly flip the mattress over.

On the other side the stain is even larger.

“Try again,” says Russ.

I turn the mattress back over and say, “We’re sure this is the best one.”

“Yeah,” says Brandy. “The other one has mice living in it.”

These are the places where we end up when we decide it’s time for a fishing trip. Greasy places. Smelly places. But open places, too.

Brandy brings some bed linen. I use both sheets to double-wrap the mattress like a corpse. As soon as I lie down on it, I pretty much know how sore I’ll be in the morning. This mattress will hit me in my lower back and hips because it sags in the middle exactly like a hammock, and there are good reasons one does not see many hammocks in the bedrooms of western civilization.

I suppose this is one of the few advantages of very spartan travel accommodations: you at least know how much worse it can get and you’re unsurprised when it does.

Outside in the parking lot, idling big-rigs growl ceaselessly through the night, and a sodium-arc lamp on a high mast floods the cabin with ruddy electric moonlight. Clouds of big moths swarm in the glare and occasionally they land on the window, where they dance in circles and figure-eight patterns.

Next morning we’re up and in the stream before the sun gets there. We catch a few fish—I hook and lose a nice brown practically on my first cast. However, there seems to be a discrepancy: I came on this trip for superb fishing and the fishing is not superb. My attitude deteriorates and that makes me fish poorly and that makes me catch even less.

“They’re in here,” says Brad. “You know they’re in here. Just have to figure it out.”

I hate it when Brad says that because that’s what Brad says when the fishing sucks. This is another place where we end up sometimes—the place where the fishing ought to be good but is not and the river offers no explanation.

As the day grows hot, the fishing worsens, though that seems hardly possible. Russ and I fish a brushy, technical stretch, breathtaking for the massive potential of its shady pocketwater and plunge pools, but we catch nothing. Brad and Paul’s afternoon unfolds in much the same way, so we take a break and eat some lunch. Paul drives us around to reconnoiter various waterways and we stop to visit with some land owners for local intel.

Evening comes and it cools off. We return to the stream and split up to re-fish various sections that performed poorly during the heat of the day. I’ve given up hope of a fifty-fish day or even a twenty-fish day, and I end up at a slow, deep section where we’d caught a couple nice fish earlier.

As I approach the spot where I want to get in the water, I see animals there moving in the high grass at the bank. It’s a herd of twenty or more big-horn sheep. They emerge from the grass and pass within fifty feet of me before climbing a rocky hillside. It’s juveniles and ewes, with horns that don’t curl all the way around. Their orderly but slightly nervous procession reminds me of a gradeschool class during a firedrill. Sixty seconds later they’ve climbed over the hill and out of sight.

I continue to my spot and stand in the laid-over grass where the little herd had been resting and drinking. They’ve left behind a faint, animal odor. As I survey the water for rising fish (there are none), it occurs to me that everything around me is silent, and I do mean silent. There is no breeze or birdsong. The low-gradient stream makes no sound and there are no trucks moving along the dirt road. It stays this way for a long time. Not quiet; silent. It’s a rare and utterly welcome sensation, and it’s where I wanted to end up all along.

]]>https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/08/25/the-places-we-end-up-at/feed/10howsmallatrout5"Outside in the parking lot, idling big-rigs growl ceaselessly through the night, and a sodium-arc lamp on a high mast floods the cabin with ruddy electric moonlight."“The other one has mice living in it.”"I should mention my use of the word 'motel' in this case is generous." " Paul drives us around to reconnoiter various waterways and we even stop to visit with some land owners for local intel.""There are no risers, but the section fishes reasonably well."These are the places where we end up. Fishing for Religionhttps://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/06/07/fishing-for-religion/
https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/06/07/fishing-for-religion/#commentsFri, 08 Jun 2012 04:16:27 +0000http://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/?p=1280My wife’s boss sent me an article titled, “New Streams of Religion: Fly Fishing as a Lived, Religion of Nature” by Samuel Snyder. I’ve edged my way through the essay reluctantly. I usually try to avoid anything like this because it turns fishing into something that I just can’t believe. I’ve said it here before, but fishing is, essentially, smartish beings tricking dumber beings, and that’s about it. But as Snyder waxed on about the rituals and the texts and the baptisms and the meditations, I may have let out a small, involuntary “hallelujah.”

As I prepared for class this week, I reread one of my favorite local authors, Scott Carrier talk about fishing in the essay “The Test*.” This is the only place I’ve heard him talk about fishing–and maybe it’s because, as he says, “talking about fishing is silly, like farting and tap dancing at the same time.” But he made me realize that perhaps fly fishing can be a religion–I’m just not sure it’s my religion. Toward the end Carrier says, “It was the fly rod, just holding the rod in [my] hand, that cured [me].”

Even now as I write this, I want to be skeptical. I want to be cynical and say that this is all a stupid way for heathens to justify injuring other living things. But, tonight, I can’t. Tonight my back is sore from casting. I fished a small, clear creek on private land with a Tenkara rod and an elk-hair caddisfly. The creek was seldom wider than I am tall and the water pushed past round rocks. I caught an old, cranky brown trout. His head was shaped like a doorstop, his back was boney and his adipose fin hung limp like wrinkles off an old woman’s arms. I’m sure he has never been caught before. I’m not sure how I know this fact, but I do.

*I recommend listening to the whole story, but if you want to skip ahead, start around minute 16. If you do skip ahead, the background information you should know is he’s sad. Very sad. Here. Listen.

]]>https://howsmallatrout.wordpress.com/2012/06/07/fishing-for-religion/feed/11howsmallatrout5His head was shaped like a doorstop, his back was boney and his adipose fin hung limp like wrinkles off an old woman's arms.